


Tomboy

by mellyb6



Series: Tis a Women's World [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and d'Artagnan are on patrol. They get unexpected help to arrest a thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomboy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely post on Female Representation: http://nettlestonenell.tumblr.com/post/114049003597/female-representation
> 
> And this prompt: That upstart tomboy from a few streets over from the garrison who’s determined to follow you everywhere and ape your every move, confident she’s someday to be made a Musketeers herself.
> 
> As always, English isn't my first language.

Paris is such a big city, d'Artagnan almost always loses his way whenever he wanders by himself. So far, he knows the way from Constance's house to the Garrison, from the Garrison to the Palace, from the Garrison to a couple of taverns where his new friends are regulars. He can also manage to reach some shops by himself: a bakery and a blacksmith, mostly. He also knows where the market is, because he often accompanies his landlady on the pretence of carrying her purchases for her.

 

But whenever he finds himself on a patrol with the Musketeers, he stays very close to them. He must look like a stray puppy, hand at the ready close to his sword. He is not used to that much agitation and people. It is fine, he enjoys it, for the most part. And Porthos does not seem to mind it one bit.

 

He strides in the street with purpose, even if they don't really have one at the moment. They have delivered the letters Captain Tréville entitled them with and now, they are free to patrol the rest of the neighborhood leisurely.

 

The pauldron on Porthos' shoulder commands respect, and his young companion cannot wait to have a matching one. It's been months now since he arrived in Paris. It should not be long before the King finally notices how great an addition to the regiment he would be. For now on, he is content to show his determination in such mundane tasks.

 

Especially when they are offered some bread by an old woman behind her stall. Porthos insists to pay her, smiling widely at her, counting the coins in his gloved hand before passing them to her. She thanks him profusely, recommends them to God.

 

“Does it happen often?” d'Artagnan asks, breaking his bread and shoving a large piece in his mouth. Porthos talks around his own mouthful.

 

“What?”

 

“People giving you free things?”

 

“Priviledge of the uniform.” He winks, straightens his shoulders. They are in one of the less well-off parts of the city. People here are wearing more rags than clothes, yet, they are usually nicer than the more fortunate ones. Porthos enjoys it here. It reminds him that he can help those in need and he will do it, whenever he is given the chance.

 

He likes being able to help. He likes it when he can frighten a thief or someone with bad intentions with only one stare. He likes it when his skills are put to use to defend helpless elders or children. Of course, he loves being able to protect the King and Queen, to parade in the Palace, to wear clean clothing, to have a proper roof, a proper bed, a warm place to call home. But helping others is the most gratifying aspect to being a Musketeer.

 

So of course, when they are only a few streets away from the Garrison and that someone shouts for help, he breaks into a run. D'Artagnan almost chokes on his bread in his attempt to keep up with Porthos.

 

“What happened?” Porthos asks the woman on the ground as he grabs her hand to pull her to her feet. She does not look harmed. She _does_ look furious. Her hands are trembling, there are tears in her eyes, but when she speaks, her voice is steady.

 

“He took all the money I made this morning!”

 

“Where did he go?”

 

“I don't know! I was on the ground!” She snaps at him, and d'Artagnan cannot help but chuckle. This time, Porthos's cold stare is directed at him, and the laughter dies instantly. The young man swallows thickly and looks pointdly ahead, searching the busy street for the culprit.

 

“All right. What did he look like? Did you see his face?” Porthos asks instead, choosing to ignore the woman's anger. She pauses to consider the question.

 

“He was about his size, I suppose,” she says, pointing at d'Artagnan. “He had long blond hair. I thought he was a girl, at first.”

 

“There!” d'Artagnan exclaims, spotting the man at the end of the street. Then, he disappears around the corner. Porthos steadies the poor woman, promises her to return as soon as they have dealt with the problem, and he sprints behind his friend.

 

People know to move out of his way, even if he has to shove some to the side. It's always busy at midday, but he is taller than most so he has no trouble keeping track of d'Artagnan and the other. Suddenly, something crashes next to him, a roof tile shattering on the cobblestones. A shadow passes above him, light and swift, and the Musketeer curses.

 

“Damn it!”

 

One second of inattention and when he focuses on the stream of customers and passers-by, he has lost d'Artagnan. He has to slow down and check side alleys. There's another crash ahead, people looking up at the roofs and for once, Porthos is thankful for the intervention.

 

In an empty small street behind a tavern, d'Artagnan eventually corners the thief. They sound both short of breath. D'Artagnan is holding his side, his eyes strained on his opponent. The other seems more at a loss than anything else. Not very terrifying. However, before d'Artagnan has time to open his mouth and requests he hands the money back, a dagger is thrown his way. With such precision that d'Artagnan almost loses a few locks of hair in the process.

 

“I've got more so I suggest you let me go.” If Porthos was here, he would deal with the criminal easily. But d'Artagnan has difficulty breathing. He stills draws his pistol. Until he remembers he left it at Constance's because she wanted to practice loading it.

 

Where _is_ Porthos?

 

D'Artagnan holds up his hands, takes a couple of steps forward.

 

“There's no point in getting injured over a few coins. Hand them over and we'll let you go unharmed.”

 

“You are unarmed. I've no reason to fear you.”

 

“Then why are you walking away from me?” The young thief seems to realize what he is doing, and then his back is to the wall. There's another dagger in his hand immediately after this realization.

 

Before he has time to throw it, though, there's a shadow above them, someone shouts something incomprehensible, and the thief collapses to the ground. There is somebody on top of him, somebody who dived from the roof and effectively knocked d'Artagnan's opponent inconscious.

 

“Thank you, whoever you are. But I could have managed on my own.”

 

“Oh yes, you seemed to have everything under control.” The sarcasm might have offended him. He is more shocked by the soft tone of voice. Definitely not male.

 

“Who.....”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Porthos exclaims, sliding to an halt next to d'Artagnan. He does not appear to be surprised by their new companion. Instead, he sounds mad. “Why would you jump like this?”

 

“I saw Aramis do it once and thought it was a good opportunity to try.” The girl stands up, dusts her trousers, and d'Artagnan cannot _stop_ looking at her clothes. From the boots to the shirt, she looks like a regular boy. Well, she almost looks like _him_.

 

Porthos curses.

 

“Aramis is an idiot. And he did hurt his shoulder that time.”

 

“I must be more agile than he is then.” She rolls her shoulders in an unlady-like way to show she is absolutely fine. Then, she grins at Porthos. He shakes his head, looks at her with angry eyes, but kneels to retrieve the woman's stolen money.

 

“Don't do it. Ever,” he commands. “Your father would kill me.”

 

“Ah, that's something I'd like to see!” she snorts, bending down to gather the dagger the thief has dropped in his shock. D'Artagnan is still staring at her attire, at the hat she gathers in her small hands, at the sword at her hip. At her short hair.

 

“What happened to your hair?” Porthos demands, noticing it at the same time.

 

“I cut it. It was getting in the way.”

 

“Coralie......”

 

“What? It was! I couldn't duel properly.”

 

“That's because you're not supposed to! Damn it, girl!”

 

“Hmmm, Porthos?” The Musketeer wipes his head toward d'Artagnan, as if he had forgotten he was there.

 

“Ah, yes. D'Artagnan this is....”

 

“I'm Coralie,” she interrupts, thrusting her hand at him and he shakes it out of habit before he remembers you don't greet girls in such a fashion. Especially not girls you meet for the first time. “Are you a Musketeer as well?” But he does not need to answer because she glances at his shoulder, sees no pauldron and looks disappointed. “Never mind. You'll be one soon if you're patrolling with Porthos. We'll see each other often, then!”

 

“Uh...I don't understand,” the young man admits. Porthos is still shaking his head, cursing under his breath, all the while tying up the thief's hand behind his back. He is slowly coming back to his senses.

 

“I'm training to be a Musketeer,” Coralie explains as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

 

“But you're....”

 

“Too young? I'm almost eighteen.”

 

“....a girl.”

 

“So?” she challenges. “It did not stop me from rescuing _you_.” She blows on the unruly short curls falling on her face before hiding them under her hat. Her stance is provocative, hands on her hips, legs parted in an indecent way. After he closes his eyes to shake the vision away, d'Artagnan realizes she is mimicking one of Porthos' signature postures. And he cannot help the smile spreading on his face.

 

“Absolutely. But....are you allowed to become a Musketeer?”

 

“No, she's not.”

 

“I'll be the first one. And one day, I'll even be their Captain.”

 

“The closest you'll come to belonging to the regiment is if you _marry_ a Musketeer.”

 

Coralie makes a disgusted sound at Porthos' suggestion. He knows how ridicule it is. It's a running joke between them. This girl has been shadowing him from almost his first day in the Musketeers.

 

He was patrolling with Aramis and a couple of others when he assisted her brothers. Their horse had lost a shoe and was unable to move, thus blocking the entire street with their cart.

 

The soliders had made a great impression on the entire family, but no one could have anticipated the effect they would have on the oldest daughter. From that day on, she would constantly sneak out to hang around the Garrison, using a stick as a sword and following the men whenever they passed anywhere near her house.

 

She was stubborn, perhaps as stubborn as Porthos was. Nothing they would say would make her changer her mind. She would learn how to fight, going out in broad daylight dressed as a man, much to her mother's shame. Secretely, it made Porthos, Aramis and Athos laugh. They applauded her audacity, even though she often put herself in dangerous situations.

 

“Marriage is for the weak.”

 

“Did you tell your mother that?” Porthos does not need the answer to know that she must have. He checks that they have not forgotten anything in the alley then they start to make their way to the closest court house.

 

“Why don't you make yourself useful and give her money back to this poor woman?” he requests after a while, putting the purse in Coralie's hand. She frowns.

 

“And miss all the action?”

 

“We don't always fight. Being a Musketeer means....”

 

“Helping others, yes, I know,” she finishes for him.

 

“Besides, if I ask d'Artagnan, he'll only get lost on the way back,” Porthos adds. He flashes a cheeky grin at his offended friend. The girl stands taller, ready to laugh at his expense, which she does.

 

“I'll be honoured then. I'll stop by later to hear the rest of the story!” she calls out as she strides away, ignoring the many stares she receives. She is so confident, so out-of-place in the world. D'Artagnan should introduce her to Constance.

 

“That was something,” he concedes when the two men are alone with their prisoner.

 

“Did you think you were the only one eager to join us?”

 

“Of course not, but that. I'd never imagine that.”

 

“Isn't that right. Now, come on. The quicker we deliver him to the authorities, the quicker we'll be back at the Garrison. And the quicker we can watch Coralie humiliate you at sparring.”

 

d'Artagnan dismisses the idea, yet the shadow of a doubt passes in his eyes, enough for Porthos to mock him the rest of the way.

 

 


End file.
